Magicalamity (22 page)

“But the boys will never be able to cope with the magic,” Clarence said. “Undoing such spells is a complicated matter—they must be unpicked word for word, and by a real expert.”

“You’re an expert, Clarence, darling! You can easily do the magic from your end. And it’s a perfect little job for the boys. Who’ll take any notice of them?” Dahlia glanced at her watch. “I must go! The wallets and passports are in the cupboard in the hall.” She sighed heavily. “And before you say anything, I know it means giving back all their money—thank goodness my son’s a rock star!”

“Won’t it look a bit weird?” Pindar asked. “I mean, if all those dead guys come back to life at the same time?”

“He’s right,” Clarence said. “They’ll all need to have good solid reasons for losing their memories—the backup magic alone will take my whole supper break!”

“Clarence, I beg you!” Dahlia cried. “If this date doesn’t go perfectly, think what he might do to Jonas! It might stop him from being on our side!”

Tom was alarmed; it was terrible to think of Dad being sentenced to death because old Plato disapproved of
Dahlia’s behavior. “We have to do it,” he said to Clarence. “And I know we can—can’t we, Pindar?”

“Yes, and we should start as soon as possible,” Pindar said. “How much time do we have?”

“You wonderful boys! Thank you! I do wish you could see me properly to tell me honestly how I look—I’ve changed into a ball gown.”

“You always look lovely,” said Tom.

“My dear Tom, you really are so like your father!” She blew a kiss and the screen on the phone went blank.

Clarence tutted and shook his head, though he was smiling now. “Oh well, I’d better do as she says. I’ll perform an emergency transfer to my secret lab to work on the magic—but first I’ll get you two out of the Realm.”

“Wait a sec,” Tom said. “If you’re not coming with us, how will we get back?”

“A very good question,” said Clarence. “It won’t be comfortable for your demisprite molecules—illegal entries and exits are far more punishing—but I’ll have to do a trampoline spell.”

“Sorry?”

“Don’t worry, there’s no bouncing involved. I simply set a timer, and when the alarm goes off you and Pindar will shoot back into the Realm. I can only let you have an hour, but that should be enough. All you have to do is get the husbands out of Dahlia’s house and scatter them before their memories come back.”

“OK.” This didn’t sound too difficult.

Tom was prepared for another long flight to the nearest illegal exit, but Clarence’s magic was very advanced. He pointed his finger and drew an invisible door in the air.

“AAARGH!” yelled Tom. A great icy blast of cold hit him, freezing the blood in his veins. A few seconds later he was lying on a dirty London pavement, thawing like a bag of frozen peas.

Pindar helped him to his feet. “Are you OK?”

“Y-yes, I think so.” Tom took a few breaths of delicious mortal air, thicker and more nourishing than the air of the Realm. “Wow, that hurt! Didn’t you feel anything?”

“Not really; I don’t have any mortal molecules. This is the right place, isn’t it?”

Tom took a proper look around. They were in a Chelsea square, posh and leafy and peaceful. “Yes, this is Dahlia’s house, but I don’t know how we’re meant to break in.”

“That’ll be easy. Even I can do that spell. Come on.”

“Wait!” Tom grabbed his arm. “If anyone sees us, we’ll be arrested—and that’s all we need.”

The square was deserted. The boys ran up the front steps of Dahlia’s house, and nobody saw them except a fat gray pigeon perched on a gatepost.

“Achoo!” Pindar sneezed violently, pulled out his lightning-pistol and shot the pigeon.

Tom stared at the little pile of ash where it had been. “What are you doing?”

“It was an enemy agent—one of Dolores’s spies. I smelled it. My allergies are useful sometimes.”

“So it was a disguised fairy?” Tom was shocked.

“No, just a normal pigeon.”

“Oh.”

“I had to act quickly, before it killed us.”

“How was a pigeon going to kill us?”

“It was probably armed.”

“What? With a tiny little invisible machine gun?”

“Yes, actually.” With a frown of deep concentration, Pindar mumbled a spell, and sneezed again. The front door swung open.

Once they were safely inside the hall, both boys relaxed. Tom slightly loosened the straps of his wings, which were starting to rub his shoulders. The house was still and silent. They waited for a few minutes, and the silence stretched on.

“Well,” Tom said, “if they’re not going to come out by themselves, we’ll have to look for them.” He glanced at the only piece of furniture in the hall. “This must be the cupboard with the wallets and passports.”

He opened the doors and found three drawers. The
top drawer contained a neat bundle of different-colored passports and a box of leather wallets. The middle drawer was a jumble of expensive car keys, and the bottom drawer was stuffed to the brim with cash.

Pindar whistled softly. “She’s a master criminal—no wonder she doesn’t want that old judge finding out!”

“A Rolls—a Jaguar—a Ferrari—two Bentleys—another Rolls …” Tom shuffled through the car keys. “They probably don’t remember that they ever had cars, so it won’t be any good trying to give these back. But we can give them their wallets and passports and a good bit of cash. That’ll be useful when they suddenly wake up.”

Pindar gathered everything up. “So where are they?”

“I think she keeps them downstairs. She said they had luxurious quarters.”

Tom had never been to the basement of Dahlia’s house. They went down a narrow staircase to a huge, gleaming kitchen, achingly clean and totally deserted.

“Maybe we should try calling them.” Pindar dumped the bundles on one of the polished counters. “Er … hello!”

They waited, and the silence went on.

“Husbands!” Tom called—and they both snorted with laughter at how daft it sounded.

Three doors opened off the kitchen. Pindar tried the nearest and found a broom cupboard. The next door
led to a utility room with a washing machine, and the third—

“Bingo!” said Pindar. “She’s got a funny idea of luxury.”

The third door belonged to a square, windowless closet. Two rows of elderly men in white jackets sat on facing benches, like two rows of wax figures. Tom was horrified—how could Dahlia leave these poor old tycoons sitting in the dark?

“That mean old cow! She’s been treating them like—she’s the one who should be locked up!”

“I think she’s quite cool,” Pindar said. “She’s risking her life to defend your dad, don’t forget.”

“But to do something like this. What’s her problem with mortals, anyway?”

“Look, we’re running out of time. How does Dahlia talk to them?”

Tom said, “I’ll try calling a name—Mr. Grisling!”

Inside the dark closet, the late Mr. Grisling stood up and droned, “Yes, sir?”

“You’re free,” Pindar said. “You can go home.”

Mr. Grisling stared blankly at the wall.

“It’s no use,” Tom said. “He’s still under the spell. Come out, Mr. Grisling.”

Mr. Grisling walked out into the kitchen. “Yes, sir.”

“Hey, I know,” Pindar said. “Let’s call out the names
on the passports—then we’ll know for certain that we’re giving them to the right people.”

This was an excellent idea. Tom called out the names on the husbands’ passports as Pindar gave each husband his rightful wallet and a wad of cash, and in a few minutes all eleven husbands were standing in the kitchen in a respectful half-circle.

Tom looked at them helplessly. “Now what?”

“I don’t know,” Pindar said, “but we’d better get them well away from here before they wake up.”

“Clarence said to scatter them.” Tom groaned softly. “We’ll have to call out all their names, or they won’t do anything.”

“Do you remember them all?”

“We’ll just have to keep checking those passports.”

It took the best part of fifteen minutes to get the whole group of husbands upstairs. Tom and Pindar circled them like a pair of sheepdogs—the narrow stairs kept getting jammed with husbands, and then they had to start all over again.

“Upstairs, Mr. Grisling!”

“Mr.… er … what does this say? Mr. Hochenhammler, go upstairs!”

“Upstairs, Mr. Chang-Wu!”

At last the hall of Dahlia’s house was packed with eleven very quiet elderly businessmen. Tom squeezed through them to open the front door and a summery
breeze blew into the house, but the husbands stayed as still as wax statues.

“Shoo!” cried Pindar.

Nobody moved.

“We’ll just have to do it again,” Tom said. “Mr. Ghopal!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Go out of the house and keep walking!” To Pindar he added, “I hope he doesn’t walk straight into traffic, but it’s the best I can do.”

One by one, the husbands heard their names and slowly walked out of the house into the fresh air (very luckily, there were no other people in the square). It was a strange and moving sight—as their gray locks stirred in the breeze, they raised their heads and stared in wonder at the sky. One by one they plodded away along the street.

Pindar and Tom watched from the front door.

“They should be singing,” Tom said, “like freed birds.”

The last husband disappeared round the corner and Pindar shut the front door.

“P
hew,” Pindar said. “I must be getting less incompetent—normally I’d mess up something like that. Now I suppose we just wait for Clarence to trampoline us back to the Realm. D’you reckon Dahlia’s got anything to drink?”

The two boys returned to the kitchen. Dahlia’s huge fridge was stuffed with food and drink. Tom handed Pindar a can of Coke and took one for himself.

Just as his hand closed around the can there was a blinding white flash that froze Tom’s heart in his chest. The agonizing cold was back, and a moment later he was lying on grass with the icy can of Coke frozen to his fingers.

“Ow! Ow!” The agony didn’t last long—warmth blasted back into his bones, and his fingers loosened.

Clarence’s face looked down at him. “Well done, Tom. I’m sorry about your molecules. Can you stand up?”

Pindar helped him to his feet. “You turned blue just then—it was freaky.”

“Yeuch!” Tom shook the feeling back into his arms and legs. As he got used to the sweet, giddy-making air of the Realm, he became aware of the noises that swirled and seethed around them. The crowd on Dragon’s Lawn was lively after the supper break. People were settling themselves on cushions and refilling their glasses.

“Sit down, Tom,” Clarence said. “You’ll be glad to hear that those poor husbands are safe now—it took simply huge amounts of backup.”

Tom was tired, and it was pleasant to sit in a comfortable chair beside Clarence, sipping sweet tea and eating egg sandwiches.

The big screen flickered and the crowd on Hopping Hill cheered loudly.

“This is going to be great fun,” Clarence said. “The mountain was quaking like a jelly while you were gone!”

Tom was alarmed. “Is it safe?”

“All will be changed and many will be dead!”

“Oh.” This wasn’t his idea of fun.

“It’ll be the end of Tiberius—unless he submits to the One Good Falconer.”

“Excuse me,” Pindar said politely, “but it really can’t be me. I’m rubbish at everything and allergic to magic.”

“You must be good at something,” Clarence said.

“Well, I’m not—OK? I’m NOT the One Good Falconer. I’m the guy who wrecked nine flying coaches!”

“Nobody’s perfect. Your destiny will reveal itself. Have some popcorn.” Clarence handed each boy a large carton of warm, sugary popcorn.

Tom and Pindar shrugged at each other helplessly—what was the point, when nobody wanted to listen?—and settled back to watch the rest of Jonas’s trial.

Judge Plato appeared on the big screen. “Silence in court!”

His words were drowned by a barrage of catcalls and whistles from the crowd on Dragon’s Lawn. The crabby old judge was wearing a grand new robe of deep purple encrusted with gold.

“Looks like the date went well,” Tom said. “We freed those husbands in the nick of time.”

“Maybe he’ll marry Dahlia now,” Pindar said. “I hope a thirteenth husband’s not unlucky.”

On the screen Judge Plato said, “Get on with it, Tiberius.”

Tiberius—stark naked except for his medals—jumped to his feet, and the crowd at the big screen booed loudly.
Tom was sure he felt a slight tremor in the ground beneath his trainers.

“I’m bringing in a witness,” Tiberius said, “just to show you I know how to handle the old law. Call Derek Drapton!”

Tom nudged Pindar. “Hey, it’s the chief sobber!”

Derek Drapton stood in the witness box, meek and nervous in his long black robe.

“OK, Derek,” Tiberius began. “You were at the ball where my sister died of her broken heart.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take us through the events of that fateful night.”

“I arrived at your palace,” Derek Drapton said. “I removed my clothes in the undressing room, and as soon as I was decently nude I went to the ballroom. I danced once with your wife, Dolores Falconer, and once with … with …” Drapton broke down in tears. “With your sister Milly.”

“And how did Milly seem to you?”

“Pale and sorrowful and dying of a broken heart.”

“RUBBISH!” a voice yelled out in the court.

“Iris!” both boys cried.

There on the screen was Iris Moth, her tiny eyes flashing with anger. “That’s rubbish, and you know it, Drapton! I was at that ball—Milly was stuffing her face with cake and leading a conga line! Does that sound like someone with a broken heart?”

“Silence!” snapped the judge. “Go on, Mr. Drapton.”

“I asked her once again to marry me”—Derek Drapton was trembling—“but she refused.”

“Did she give a reason?” Tiberius asked.

“Yes, sir, she said it was my spindly legs.”

There was a roar of laughter, in court and on Dragon’s Lawn.

“No, you great twit!” shouted Tiberius. “The REAL reason!”

“Oh—sorry—because Jonas Harding had broken her heart.”

“Was that the last time you saw my sister alive?”